


Sueño Causado Por el Vuelo de una Abeja

by We_live_in_a_Society



Series: The Surrealities [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Businessmen, Character Development, Character Study, Cheating, Choking, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Novel, New Mexico, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Smut, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000, Wordcount: Under 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_live_in_a_Society/pseuds/We_live_in_a_Society
Summary: Some people carry many faces, each of them heavier than the precedent.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Surrealities [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660720
Kudos: 2





	Sueño Causado Por el Vuelo de una Abeja

Waiting is this unique kind of activity that she has always considered in terms of ‘interesting’, or relatively close to it – a rare opportunity to lean back and observe even the most mundane environmental changes. Airport is the place that bestows you with the aforementioned trait, or maybe not the place itself but the current circumstances she is under – biding for a man that is meant to pick her up.

The first association that comes to her mind, while sitting here, is that such facilities are overly hectic, full of loud noises and constant movement, people hurrying from one location to another, lost in their own thoughts. As a matter of fact, it might be described as incomprehensible – an odd paradox where you feel extremely lonely within crowded spaces, where you float, sort of detached from reality, deep in your personal reverie.

Sometimes, she likes to wonder where are all these people heading, whether they are aiming for Bangladesh, or maybe Portland? To go sightseeing, or in a face of a business matter? Are they afraid of what it might bring them, or right the opposite – elated due to the wonderful opportunity to prove their abilities and become the employee of the month, or maybe even get a permanent promotion? A concoction of all the simplest of the merest thoughts, assumptions, meant to be forgotten sooner than later, lost in between the Things of Greater Matter, or however you wish to call them instead.

Or maybe the Least Pleasant Aspects to Deal With is a better expression, preferable to be left pending – a foolish hope that they will somehow manage to solve themselves?

Which is the worst possible option – to wait – albeit still undeniably tempting.

If only life could be this facile, if only we could shape it with almost no effort, but what if it would equalize with life depraving – no pleasure without pain, because how would we define the former if we did not know what the latter was?

Noah has no idea, that is for sure.

“Cristina?” A voice, a male voice to be exact, the one that brings her back to the current timeline, to imply that she is supposed to look up instead of down, to face anything that future has to offer.

Oh.

So on tonight’s show the future offers her a man, a successful man to be exact, with a dashing smile and equally flawless hairstyle, combed back with some meticulous kind of precision that she finds a little surreal. In spite of those few years that passed since their last encounter, he still looks, well… fine?

(Sometimes finding proper words can be a little challenging.)

However, she only manages to steal a quick glance, hoping it will not be considered as staring, since it would be rather embarrassing to get caught in such an awkward act. Elsewise, it would only fuel his pride, or rather vanity, and she has no intentions in doing so, since his attitude has always been something that she finds quite frustrating, vexatious maybe, but also whips up some contradictory feelings inside her that leave Cristina a bit uneasy, and she is rather conflicted about whether it is more for the better or for the worse.

“Um, hi- I mean,” she stutters, cringing mentally at her own childish awkwardness, “good afternoon, Mister Howard.”

“It’s Earl,” he laughs, as if to lighten up the mood, or maybe because he finds her amusing, having her opting for the former option, probably just for her own sake. “I think we should switch to something less formal, considering we are gonna live together for quite a little while, huh?”

“Sí, I mean, sure, that’s totally understandable,” she flashes him a brief smile, as if in attempt to appear as someone more polite and respectful than rude, hesitantly rising from her seat with a little help from his offering hand.

“Let me take your luggage then,” he already extends his arm to grip the suitcase as if her confirmation was not important, as if he was assuming that it was necessary, or that she was incapable to accomplish such an unusual task.

“No, it’s fine,” she shakes her head slightly, snatching the leather object from his reach. “I’ll manage.”

“I sincerely hope you will,” he lifts one posh eyebrow, flashing her a sideways glance, seemingly careless, but deep down a little annoyed with her rejection, nevertheless refined as always. Come to think of it, such mimics can be associated with inter alia all those rich businessmen of his kind – incredibly audacious in face of their success.

However, having cast that last look, he makes his way towards the main entrance, wordlessly signalizing her to follow him wherever he is heading in the end. This time she complies for a change, half walking, half jogging, in attempt to follow his footsteps, for some reasons deciding against asking him to slow down. Brief moments later, thanks to the well-mastered Art of Incredibly Fast Striding, they step through the double doors just to halt almost immediately, greeted with the side of his shiny old-school Cadillac.

Of course he drives a cabriolet; what else could it be?

“Mind if I take your luggage now, or do you want to load it by yourself?” He inquires, a little sarcastic, a fleeting tingle that almost causes her to laugh, but instead, she hands him the suitcase, quick to flop down on the elegant, leather upholstered seat. Followed by a dull thud and car boot’s slam, he joins her on the driver seat, starting the engine with a deft turn in ignition that makes her wonder how many years have passed since he got his driver license and why he has not decided to employ a chauffeur.

Maybe he finds certain pleasure within the activity itself.

“Mind if I put on some music?” She asks, immediately after the engine roars to life, beginnings of her sentence half-drowned by the noise, which induces her to cast a brief glance to the left, as if to make sure that in spite of it, her words have reached his ears.

“Feel free to do it,” he accedes, preoccupied with how to avoid getting stuck in the traffic at the airport’s peripheries that luckily seem less crowded at such a late hour. “There some records in the glove box, if you share my opinions about how incredibly tawdry all these radio stations are.”

“And why is that?” She dwells on a little further, being a strong believer that sensible arguments are what really makes any opinion reliable. “Have you even checked them all?”

“Enough to develop my final conviction,” he cuts, in a manner that might be considered as overly stern, maybe even rude, though she does not find it offensive or repulsive, often creating the same impression. “And I prefer to actively participate in what’s going within my surroundings, avoid letting others chose what they assume would be the best for me without giving it a second thought.”

“What a great insights you have formed,” she rolls her eyes, reaching for the handle to open the compartment, just to come across no one other than Ziggy lying atop Sticky Fingers. “And what a great collection you have here.”

“Sometimes less options create more choices,” he smirks briefly in her direction, changing his grip on the steering wheel – something that does not slip past her attention, always the penchant for details, and the way his forearm flexes due to the slight adjustment is just one of them. “But I prefer the Rolling Stones.”

“Will you just let me pick?” She huffs, attempting to hide the hint of irritation within her voice.

“I’m not depraving you of a choice,” he continues with the explanation, not quite bothering to look at her, despite halting on the red light. “I only mark what is better for me.”

“You do?” She cocks a single eyebrow at him – a pawky challenge awaiting for him.

“Got me further than the opposite ever would,” his lips twist into another smirk – a gesture she will soon associate with him and mostly him. “Out of plain curiosity, is there anything wrong with the Rolling Stones?”

“No, they’re fine,” she denies with a mere shake of her head. “I was simply processing it, which one would I want.”

“Ah, the decision-making process,” he interrupts with a small laugh, albeit quick to get back on the track. “What a wonderful realm, what a way to prove ones abilities, truly an opportunity for an unrepeatable upturn… or a great burden. Come to think of it now, all my fine ideas started from the Sticky Fingers,” he notes as the engine roars again in time with the change of a traffic light, voice a little louder than usual to pierce through the sound.

“What about the bad ones?” She inquires, driven by some mere interest, although she has some inklings about the possible reply.

“And what do you think the answer is?”

* * *

If she ever got to describe his house to anyone else, she would opt for a simple comparison – it is quite big indeed, akin to his ego.

Actually no, the latter is enormous while the former is just a little above the average.

Or maybe more than a little.

Truth to be told, lying here at night seems kind of unsettling, only her within the radius of approximately two rooms, him hell knows where, probably still in the study, preoccupied with whatever he has been doing since he gave her a quick tour, telling her to ‘make herself at home’. Ironically, she is not used to such open spaces, living in a relatively small flat her whole life, but it would be a lie to say that she does not like the change that ensures her almost a year-long break, a year without Noah’s endless complains about some pointless crap.

What a pity it slipped her mind to call him tonight, missing out such a wonderful opportunity to hear more of whatever he would be offering – a waste in its finest form. In certain moments, she feels like it would be better to simply end their relationship, too many aspects differing them, but at the same time she is not sure whether she is ready to cope with all the grumble her parents are willing to deliver, since apparently Noah is the best husband candidate out of all men alive.

What a pity she cannot find herself concurring with their views, and ironically, she is the one at loss because of it. She has thought a lot about their, or rather his expectations, but despite all those hours full of wonder, a sensible solution never flooded her mind, leaving her putting off the inevitable for far too long. All she has to say is as simple as that: “no, I don’t want to have kids with you, let alone marry you,” and then repeat it as many times as needed until he will stop assuming it is all a joke, until he will stop begging her not to leave him – a manipulative bastard – coaxing her that they create a ‘perfect match’ together.

She would rather argue on this one, no more, no less, and she sincerely hopes that some time off before the senior year will help her to sort everything out and finally collect the courage, or rather volition, to talk to him, since it is more likely that she would find it easier to accomplish via phone.

Ah, excuses, excuses.

(“And as the years go by, her search continues, helpless and weeping, albeit children never to be found, drowned in the dark waters, now allowed to make friends with the fish, and the fish only…”)

Sometimes, she doubts about the stability of Nana’s mental health.

Among other things.

In face of her internal struggle to fall asleep, she decides to ditch the possibility of napping for a while, quick to toss the sheets aside, since a bit of touring never hurt anyone, right? Especially if preluded with owner’s verbal consent. And it is not like she is planning to invade his privacy, or rummage through his stuff, just a basic survey of what the common area has to offer.

Having passed through the empty hall, she walks down the stairs, deciding it will be better to get some fresh air first, now, when it is a little less scorching – an opportunity for few moments to spend alone, surrounded by a pleasant view. However, this time it happens to be occupied, much to her distaste, although not entirely – a silhouette illuminated by the night lights, luring her to come a little closer, while she remains conflicted about the idea, not entirely positive whether she is willing to deal with social interactions of any form.

“You could join me here instead of lurking in the shadows,” he speaks all of sudden, having sensed her presence behind him, startling the brunette to the point where she utters a loud gasp, much to his amusement. “or is watching just more of your thing?”

“What?” She blinks in confusion, seemingly taken off guard by his joke, at least she hopes it is a correct assumption, not to take it seriously.

“Just kidding,” he reassures, a smile audible in his voice, as he motions her with a graceful flick of his wrist. “Come, I won’t bite.”

“Unless I ask you to, right?” She snaps, her tone a little jeering, as she leans forward on the railing, bracing her weight on the forearms.

“Well, I didn’t say that,” he smirks with a slight perk of his eyebrow, his gaze lingering on her for a brief moment, a repugnant look blossoming on his face as he eyes her oversized t-shirt with a rather ridiculous pattern, featuring some weird guy wearing a sombrero. “Oh, and what a great taste in sleepwear you have.”

“Look who’s talking,” she rolls her eyes, referring to his clothing, or rather the lack of it – satin fabric of his underwear being the only layer to deprive her from the whole view.

“Truth to be told, I usually sleep in nude, but it seems like I’ll have to give up my habits,” he admits, seemingly ignoring her dismissive gesture, “in case we run into each other in the morning.”

“Oh, what a great gentleman you are,” she huffs, her eyes drifting back to his face for a brief moment. She notices that his hair is naturally wavy, loose strands falling down onto his forehead, as he sips on his whisky, something that was not so obvious when they were slicked back. She fights back the impulse to thread her fingers through it, just to check whether its texture is actually as silky as it looks. 

It would be a lie to say that she has never developed at least some kind of crush over him, neither too deep nor overly ostentatious, however still present, if only as something rather shallow, connected mostly with the posh looks and the charming mannerisms – from how he gracefully moves around, no awkward treading on anyone’s toes, to the general nonchalance carried within his speech. She has always found him entrancing, ever since the very first moment he bothered to visit them a few years ago, son of his father’s friend, a young successful businessman that brought his parents’ receding company back on the track, much to everyone’s surprise.

But that was six years ago, and she is a grown-up woman now,

(is she?)

instead of a teenager that would try to seem at least a bit more mature in his eyes, fed up with hearing that her opinions did not matter just because it was only a few days in advance of her Quinceañera, as if it was supposed to make her a different person. He, in turn, have not changed much since their brief encounter, which is probably for the worse when it comes to her, now somewhere around his mid-thirties, only the shallow lines marking certain areas of his face, betraying that he might be older than he looks at the first glance. She cannot help but wonder where is the source of his irreproachable appearance – within good genes or some inhuman amount of self-discipline – in the end opting for relatively equal proportions of both factors.

“Remember our first meeting?” He asks all of sudden, making her question the confidentially of her own thoughts.

“I would rather forget it,” she chuckles awkwardly, a broken giggle that reminds him of one of his past fiancés, the one with extravagant wedding plans. What a relief (for himself mostly but also for his wallet) he never got to experience what each of them actually involved. “Since well, I probably didn’t manage to make the best impression.”

“Oh, I would rather say you made quite a fine one,” he cocks an eyebrow at her, while mindlessly swirling the remains of scotch that is poppling at the bottom of his glass, just to down it in one gulp seconds later. “But I think it might be a personality trait – how we criticize any given past action that is proximately related to us.”

“What do you criticize about yourself then?” She asks, running her fingertips over the railing’s cool surface in a manner that hints some underlying thoughtfulness, that she might attend only half-present next to him.

“I don’t criticize myself, darling,” he sneers, the exact kind of answer that she was expecting to receive, “because, according to the words of some rather infamous diplomat: ‘he who is highly esteemed is not easily conspired against’.”

“So you avoid creating any illusion that the truth might be any different?” She inquires, maybe to understand certain aspects better, or more accurately – to irk him up, even if for the slightest bit.

“Business world follows its own set of rules, I think that’s the best way to put it,” he explains briefly as if it was not the first try, all while she cannot help but wonder how many times he has heard that question throughout his career.

“What about the tattoo? Do you regret it, maybe?” She ignores the prior statement, much to his annoyance, since a lot of people keep asking that one question seemingly since the very begging of time, as if he was supposed to repent even having it done in the first place.

“Why should I regret it?” He questions a little further, voice betraying his irritation.

“Well,” she begins, an involuntary smirk tugging at the corners of her lips due to the tone of his voice, “it looked rather quirky from where I was standing before.”

“Quirky is not the world I would use,” he counters, much to her amusement in turn, but she is yet to discover the genuine pleasure that comes with riling him up like this. “And it’s not like I regret it, although I’m well aware that the concept itself might be a little overrated. However, it reminds me of one peculiar vision that has been blossoming somewhere within since my early adolescent years, and so I decided to make a use out of it.”

“What is it supposed to resemble then?” She asks, fully aware that he is not likely to continue without her verbal response, something that he finds necessary – the confirmation that they are willing to listen to his talks about whatever he is intending to unravel in front of their eyes, or rather minds, as if he wanted to avoid wasting time on people who do not care about his response at all. 

“That you should be both a lion and a fox, because the former can’t defend himself against snares while the latter – against wolves,” he explains, reaching back to scratch the nape of his neck. “And so, you need to join both of their given advantages to discover the snares and terrify the wolves.”

“Machiavelli?” The recognition that brings a smile to his face.

“Who else could it be?”

This time she is the one to laugh, her head lulling to the side in time with the impact, inviting him to steal a quick glance of her exposed throat, something that appears to be decided on with mere half-consciousness. Strangely enough, he has been somehow fond of her since the very beginning, but never took a chance to fully consider it, even though he has always portrayed her as quite alluring in terms of general appearance – delicate features, plush lips, big brown eyes. No wonder she has a boyfriend, at least as far as he knows it, since Neal, or whatever his name was, called him at least ten times to discuss some importantly unimportant matters, reminding him on multiple occasions that she is, indeed, involved, as if some crappy guy really made a difference here.

It is not a secret that he always gets what he wants, or at least aims for achieving anything of that sort, she being an inherent part of it now, seemingly tired with her relationship, which may tilt the balance for his own benefits. He has no idea what is, in fact, going on between them, nevertheless the situation does not present itself in a good light, more like a halting passage between the two essential stages of life – Before and After the Breakup. And so, as every other time heretofore, he takes the matter in his own hands, and proceeds with the action, never the one to look back.

“I have a proposition for you,” he changes the topic, a brief moment of silence later and oh so smoothly, albeit feeling obliged to go through it now, rather than in a few days.

“What kind of proposition?” She asks, a bit drily, but it is not like he minds, in contrary to Noah, who seem to have some issues with a few, or maybe more than just a few, of her speech manners.

“I’m attending a dinner party in a few weeks, and it is not extremely difficult to figure out that a date always makes you appear in a better light on such events,” he begins, albeit leaving nothing to her speculations. “So I thought that you might wanna come with me.”

“Oh really?” She pretends to be surprised with his oh so sudden offer. “That’s quite, um, generous, but I don’t think I have appropriate clothes, and to be honest I also don’t think I’ll fit the company.”

“Then I’ll get you something suitable,” he reassures, continuing on further, without giving her a chance to retreat. “And yes, I’ll pay for that, it’s not an issue for me,” he cuts her nonexistent denial, halting for a brief moment, just to cast an eye over her as if to make sure about the validity of his earlier assumption. “You are size four, am I right?”

“Um, yes,” she admits, a little perplexed, considering the oddity of possessing such a personal information, which leads her to the conclusion that he might be somehow familiar with the proportions of female body, ”but I haven’t agreed yet.”

“Oh, you claim you haven’t agreed, interesting,” he ponders, with that typical feigned manner, a hint that is a little hard to decipher albeit ever present. “But does it also mean you won’t?” 

“It doesn’t,” She counters, much to his further benefit, however that does not change the fact he is not entirely prepared to hear any conditions, “and actually I think I might agree in addiction with some decent bribing.”

“I don’t think I’m willing to bribe,” he retorts oh so unexpectedly.

“A businessman not willing to bribe?” She asks rather sarcastically, her voice laced with a decent amount of mock astonishment. “Now that’s interesting.”

“Touché,” he sighs – a rare opportunity to witness the simplest of acknowledgements off his hand – albeit decides to participate in her little game anyway, somewhat curious about where she is intending to take it. “Any particular bribing you have in mind?”

“Not really,” she shakes her head with some careless manner that he has seen her performing a couple of times before. “I’m fully relaying on your ingenuity.”

“Not a wise thing to do,” he smirks, adorning it with a fine perk of his eyebrow, “give man a free rein.”

“Tell me about it.”

* * *

Some impressions are like trains – they hit you when you do not actually expect them, which is consistently inexplicable since their approach is always preceded by the railway signal. Every single time it emerges as such an illogical turn of events, beyond infuriating, however it is necessary to withstand it and so march along, at least according to what Nana once told her. Despite the aforementioned doubts about her sanity, she might have been the most sensible person Cristina ever had the pleasure to accompany, or listen to, maybe because of her opinion about Noah 

(“Some people carry many faces, each of them heavier than the precedent”)

… among other things.

However, there is something else she kept telling her for whatever, seemingly important reasons, preluding it with how her mother would never get it, and in face of that it is safe to assume they had their differences. Cutting to the chase, she used to say that our life abounds in certain aspects, certain situations, certain absolutes, perceived as obvious, given, dependable, maybe just to fool ourselves – a sad truth about partial humanity. Even so, in such trite circumstances there is only one view that leaves her with proper assurance.

The dress is pleasant to touch.

And very short.

A man knows what he likes, is it not what they say?

As a matter of fact it has been rather obvious that Earl’s tastes are well defined, at least according to the note he has left her, hence the sight in the mirror, a tiny card filled with elegant cursive. Sometimes it drives her nuts, to see how perfect each of his creations is, despite knowing it is more or less far from the truth, probable the latter in this case, nevertheless she finds herself curious about its contents.

C,  
Thought it would look nice on you.  
Sincerely hope you’d agree with me for once.  
PS: I’ll pick you up at 7:30 p.m. Don’t be late.

“Or what?” She huffs to herself, more than a little annoyed with his circumstantial condescension. “You’ll punish me?”

However, she cannot deny the clothing looks rather alluring on her, its yellow dye creating nice contrast to her tanned skin, the flounced bottom outlining her hips, akin to its sisterly cleavage, quite risqué when it comes to the triangular cut. It would be a reprehensible lie to say she does not appreciate the gift, or that she is not glad with the opportunity to wear such an dandy piece from time to time.

All too soon the object of her current focus is teared apart by a soft, polite knock on the door, and before she knows it, he enters her room, probably vexed due to all the excess waiting. Truth to be told, he has never been considered in terms of a patient person, rather the one who aims for getting things done as soon as possible, something she does not feel the pressure to achieve or contribute in, rather putting an emphasis on the process itself.

“Could you not enter right away?” She huffs, turning on the heel to face him, just in time to catch the remains of a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Her breath hitches, hopefully not audible enough to catch it, at the visage unlacing in front of her eyes – a simple black suit, similarly hued shirt, no tie, since she never saw him wearing one – a picture of classic elegance that she is quite fond of.

“Sorry, love,” not an actual apology by any means, “but we gotta go.”

“It’s not very hard to guess,” she alludes, following him down the corridor to the ground floor, her heals clicking rhythmically on the hardwood floor, as she tries to match his longer strides. “Who’s hosting the party?”

“My friend,” he replies, oh so unexpectedly, as he holds the front door open for her, gesturing to get into the parked Cadillac, where he joins her a brief moment later, quick to start the engine and drive away, a little more rapidly than usual.

“Are we late?” She asks, only to confirm her assumption, not that it bothers her, whether they will arrive five or fifteen minutes later than they are supposed to.

“We’ll see,” he glares at her, a hint of smile threatening to blossom upon his lips as he takes in her appearance. Indeed, she manages to make the dress look better than expected, he thinks, as his eyes drift back to the road unravelling in front of their eyes.

In all honesty, driving might be one of his favorite activities, something that his colleagues are unable to fully understand – relying on chauffer’s abilities when it comes to not killing anyone by accident. Also, it brings him back to his youth, those few years after he got the license, when he used to get in the car, sometimes accompanied by one of his past girlfriends, and drive to any destination that he found particularly interesting – sweet, sweet nostalgia. It makes him feel like an elder man, rugged, seasoned, polished, ready to retreat at any given moment – someone he may become in distant future, someone that people would look up to, ask for advice, an actual fucking advice, instead of the boo-hoo-I-am-so-sad emotional support.

(“How to become a successful person like you, sir?”)

However, senility is the last stage he desires to achieve right now, but on the other hand he has no intend in going back to how everything once used to be. Life is like a river, at least according to what his grandfather kept telling him on multiple occasions, streaming faster than you are physically

(or is mentally a better word?) 

able to overcome, which leaves you with the simplest of choices – either waste your time, trying to swim in the opposite direction, or realize all your attempts are futile and build a raft to make your voyage more convenient, never taking eye from the stray swimmers with parasitic aspirations. Truth to be told, it is impossible to retreat from them fully, pretend they are nonexistent, that their requests are inaudible – a burden that comes with success. At least he is not balding, and that is always a favorable situation, considering all the drawbacks of losing certain parts of hair, which is not highly important to look into right now, but still, it invades his mind anytime his gaze lands on all those unlucky Bald Before Forties men.

What a magnificent way to maneuver through topics – from driving to balding – something that brings back that old nostalgia again, memories of long debates about everything and nothing at once. Tammy was talented when it came to the switching abilities, among other things of course, but right now she is nothing more than just another part of past, has been for many years, nonetheless he carries a lot of fond memories about her. Easily associated with Cristina in more ways than one, maybe this is why he felt that instant attraction towards her, maybe because she reminds him of what it was like to be a college student, what it was like to drive for miles and miles through New Mexico, the dessert dust acting as their only follower, discussing the Life Before.

He partly misses it, but on the other hand his current position is the aftermath of all the diligent work, something that he is quite proud of, something that proves his abilities, that allows him to lead his life the way he wants to, at least for the most of parts, excluding a few unpleasant incidents. But what does a few drops of bitter liquor change, if poured to a whole bathtub of sweet nectar?

Oh yes, Earl certainly loves his life.

“I like how the city is illuminated,” she remarks, her voice interrupting the current train of thoughts. “Maybe it’s a silly thing to say, but everything here feels like ‘more’, comparing to Santa Fe.”

“You mean overwhelming?” He glares at her with a barely present smirk.

“Not really,” she shakes her head a little, “more like immersing. ”

“Enticing?”

“Yeah,” she nods for a change, glaring at him for a brief interlude through observing the streets. She enjoys watching him drive, for whatever reasons, and luckily for her they have been riding around a lot throughout those two weeks following her arrival, with him insisting on showing her the city, or at least all the places he considered important.

“Actually, I think my last trip to New Mexico, I mean as a tourist, was like, maybe, fifteen years ago,” he dwells, drumming some unknown rhythm with him fingers on the steering wheel.

“You used to travel a lot?” She queries, somehow interested with his Life Before, although not willing verbalize it directly, opting for occasional eluding inquiries.

“Quite,” he replies, a little less comprehensively than she expected him to, “mostly when I was in college.”

“Where?” She asks again, her gaze back at the passing surroundings, and all the exorbitant houses that make quite a picture when combined in a relatively regular line.

“Across the States,” he resumes, a little less talkative than usual, at least in her notion, which in turn makes her wonder what kind of thoughts were flashing through his mind just a few minutes before.

“I never had a chance to take such a trip,” she avows, “I only visit Mexico from time to time, family and stuff, but I’ve always found it fascinating, the variety of landscapes that the States have to offer.”

“How long have you been living in Santa Fe?” He alludes, a little sidetracking maybe, but she finds herself not carrying, since it has never been something that bothered her – dry, seemingly unrelated questions.

“Long enough to be able to tell that I want to change something,” she prevaricates – his favorite way of answering a question. “Why have you chosen to live here?”

“The La-La-Land?” he laughs briefly. “Because the dwellers are inveterate dreamers, fucking foolish to the bone, like children playing with cars, imagining that one day they’re gonna have a whole fucking garage filled with luxurious machines.”

“And that’s the only reason?” She inquires, maybe just to vex him a little.

“I think you know how to answer that question,” he is the one to prevaricate this time, drawing an annoyed huff out of her. “And we’re here by the way.”

She is greeted with the side of yet another exorbitant house, not surprisingly so, although she has to admit the garden lights are brilliant, and so is the whole setting – table and chairs surrounded by Mediterranean plants – barring the slightly overcrowded inside, at least for her taste. Without a word, she follows him, briefly wondering what kind of person puts garden furniture on the front lawn, even if its size is appropriate, as they walk up to the main entrance, with her holding him by the arm, trying not to trip due to uneven surface.

“Oh hi!” Her ears prick up at the overly excited beam, eyes shooting up to meet the sight of a woman, practically jumping on Earl. He catches her just in time, reluctantly hugging the blonde back, and as soon as she lets him go, he flashes her a polite smile, gingerly putting some distance between them, nevertheless her seemingly forced embrace lasted a few seconds too long for Cristina’s taste.

“Nice to see you too, love,” so he calls every woman ‘love’ now, interesting.

(¡Qué te folle un pez!)

(Jesus, get a fucking grip for once.)

“You look ravishing by the way,”

(oh, she certainly looks everything but ravishing)

he adds, lips remaining twisted in the same courteous smile, gaze skimming just briefly over her figure, as if to emphasize the point.

“You don’t look so bad yourself too,” the woman giggles, making Cristina’s whole body cringe internally, in silent hope that her own laugh never sounds so silly.

“I’m aware of that,” he quips, although she is able to hear a hint of annoyance hidden behind his voice, which might also refer to experiencing what one wants to acknowledge. “Anyway, this is my friend, Cristina, and-”

(Is he talking about me?)

“Angel,” she interrupts, reaching out with her hand – one of the worst greetings to receive from certain people.

“Is it a short form of Angelica?” She inquires, clueless when it comes to why she even bothers to ask, as she reluctantly accepts the handshake.

“It’s a stage name.”

Magnificent.

“Cristina,” she requites, half-consciously wiping her hand on the exposed part of her thigh.

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, her seemingly flawless face marked with a frown of confusion.

(“And the one who nullifies the thinking process, will never be invaded with doubts.”)

“Just making sure,” she smiles, a little maliciously, not quite bothering to hide it, since the blonde is obviously meant to catch it.

“Well, sorry to interrupt, but,” he turns his attention to Angel, “could you tell me where Chester is?”

“Probably in the main room, like everyone else,” she replies with a smile, as if attempting not to look overexcited, as if her body language has not given up the game at the start. “I can lead you the way.”

“I think I’ll manage,” he retorts, a little sarcastically, much to Cristina’s amusement, however not enough for the lovesick young woman to realize. “And in case we won’t have another chance to talk, good luck with your album.”

“Thanks, I mean I should be thanking you, and-”

“No need for that, love,” his answer is left without a smile this time, not that it bothers Cristina, another evident attempt to get rid of the obtrusive chick, “and no time actually, so excuse me but I still have a few matters to discuss here, and so I really must be going.”

“Um, okay,” she pouts a little, probably without even realizing it, but evades either way, flashing Earl, and Earl only, a quick, “have fun,” over her shoulder, before walking away entirely.

“Who’s Chester?” She asks as soon as they are left alone again.

“Trust me, he’s the last person you would be willing to meet,” he laughs briefly, a laugh of a person the has predominance in terms of information.

“That’s not an answer I was expecting,” she counters, only to hear his signature, annoyed huff of breath, worth it every single time.

“A guy that I’m doing business with,” he rolls his eyes, well-aware of the fact that she has no intensions in desisting the topic elsewise.

“What’s wrong with him?” She inquires, while half-consciously fixing the creased collar of his shirt, probably due to the clingy embrace, smoothing the fabric with a final movement of her hand.

“Misogyny and Kennedy, that’s what’s wrong with him,” he explains, a little too evasively for her taste, whereas she ascribes it to the hurry. “But otherwise he’s perfectly all right.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” he shrugs it off, simply like so. “Sorry love, but I’m really running out of time here. Promise I’ll be back soon.”

“Have fun with your Kennedy talk, then,” she replies dismissively, receiving an apologetic smile in return, or the one that is supposed to be considered as such, before she is left alone on the doorstep, all by herself.

It takes her a few seconds to examine the surroundings, several groups of well-dressed people chatting in a background, their voices mingling together into some odd cacophony – not the most pleasant notion. She walks past a few of them, avoiding eye contact in hope they will not notice her, or worse – expect her to become an active participant of any crappy small talk they are engaging into at the moment.

However, she is quick to figure out the best way to avoid an awkward conversation – a terrace door on the opposite side, luring her oh so dearly, too dearly to reject. Without further ado, she maneuvers through the groups and a few furniture, just to step on a lovely platform, covered with terracotta to match the entirety. She leans onto the railing – a simple gesture that reminds her of the first night in La-La-Land – and somehow she finds herself wishing to be joined by Earl, since standing here alone feels incomplete in some way.

Maybe this is what Nana liked to call ‘nostalgia’.

Maybe nostalgia means staring at sunset, a reminiscence of the past moments, an uncomplete association, ever present in one’s memory but not reality.

She sighs heavily, considering the utter absurdity of her own thoughts, since she has never fitted into the category for past-oriented people, but there are certain moments when she feels like reflecting, especially while standing alone in the sunset, stuck in a relationship that she wants so desperately to be over. Whereas, if Noah has ever taught her anything is that people may leave you if you are unable to keep them attached.

Ironic.

In sudden impulse, she finds herself in a desperate need to call him, after two weeks without a single word, to say that it is over, that she cannot keep it going anymore, but then something stops her – a hunch that it might solve by itself, so is there any need to engage actively? Or to ask a question when the answer clarifies itself with almost blatant obviousness?

Pathetic.

Sometimes, she is invaded by an odd notion, a reluctance towards certain words, or just one word that Noah seem to mention more frequently than his distaste for any ‘social distancing’.

Pregnancy – one that shatters her whole being, that scares her to the bone, that makes her blood run cold, one that she is afraid to face anytime it pops into her mind. However, what Noah wants, Noah gets, at least according to him.

Albeit not this time.

It is unbelievable, how the change was happening right in front of her nose, and she still failed to notice until it became more than painfully obvious. Truth to be told, he has always had his issues, but who has not, and at some point he even seemed to struggle with making a self-developing change, so she decided to give him a chance and see where it would take them.

Well, it took them fucking nowhere, that is for sure.

Despite a decent start – his attempts on being less pushy, less manipulative in terms of emotions, less invasive when it came to her personal space – it ended up not quite as expected. Shortly after realizing that, she decided to stop seeing him, although without breaking up since it was nothing more than a futile attempt, with him being unable to comprehend it, so she opted for creating a telling distance between them, in hopes that the message would reach its destination someday.

But it has not, and her parents adored him – manipulative dickhead – with only Nana in the possession of truth.

Nevertheless, the breakup is only a matter of time, and she even feels like Earl might be encouraging the situation itself, but these are mostly paranoid notions, probably, but on the other hand he seems to be genuinely interested in her, his subtle acts proving it well enough to form such assumptions. Sometimes they reach quite ridiculous levels, since of course the fact that his hands tend to find its place on the small of her back, or that he is not opposed to her touching him either, has to carry a double meaning.

(“Everything caries a double meaning.”)

Did she mention her doubts about Nana’s mental health before?

“Mind if I join you?” She utters a startled gasp at the sudden noise, turning around simultaneously to face the intruder, just to discover that it is only Earl, much to her relief.

“Fucking hell,” she curses angrily, her voice a few tones higher, making it sound less threating, more ridiculous, “you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Had no intend to do so, love,” he reassures, quick to join her by the railing. “However, I think you should meet a few of my business partners, since well, spending the whole event here kinda misses the point.”

“No,” she replies dryly.

“C,” he chuckles, maybe a little nervous, but it might be just her impression, “you’re putting me in a quite uncomfortable situation, to be honest.”

“I know,” she shrugs, the last person that cares about his image.

“Seriously?” He huffs in disbelief, rocking backwards with a barely noticeable movement, as his grip around the railing visibly tightens. She cannot help but wonder whether he simply finds her this infuriating, or whether his emotions have been built on a deeper ground? 

Probably the second one.

“I was just fucking with you,” she retorts, completing it with a derisive eye roll. “But I sincerely hope you’ll introduce me to Chester.”

“No,” he denies almost at the spot, since the rant resulting in the confrontation of these two is the last situation he is willing to experience after their talk and Chester’s endless complains about his former partner that would just pop out of nowhere, unrelated to any of discussed matters.

“C’mon, why?” She bumps their shoulders together, maybe on purpose, maybe not, as she leans into him in a seemingly undeliberate movement.

Interesting.

“No means no, C.”

At least that is what he keeps telling himself.

* * *

Music has always brought him to a state of certain serenity, a distraction from the Matters of Great Mundanity – polar opposite from what he finds interesting – a partial lie, since escaping is barely a solution, the one for weak, parasitic people, however music is not eventually dedicated to such. Somehow, he misses the times when everything appeared as simple as that, meant to be taken verbatim, but in other hand complexity is a challenge, an opportunity to test one’s abilities, unmissable in minds of certain specie’s representatives, fleeting in eyes of others.

(You can't come back and think you are still mine…)

“The song,” he notes, out of context, his voice reverberating seemingly far away, “one of my ex’s favorites.”

She bestows him with no verbal answer, instead sighs sleepily on the other side of the coach, her head lulling to his side for a slightest bit. In his eyes, she appears as detached, otherworldly, comically out of reach, she always does in some way, however he tended to ignore the notion until now. Furthermore, she possesses some divine ability to make him forget who he is, at least in certain moments, when everything reminds him of the Life Before, and then take him back to where he is settled – the superiority of present over past.

“I’m going to sleep,” she states bluntly, voice drowsy with weariness.

“Unbelievable,” he spats, lacing it with a hint of sarcasm, vexed because of the obvious lack of desired answer. “Always the one to cut in the harshest of moments.”

“Care to join me?” She proposes all of sudden, ignoring his jeering tone, within an ability to catch a man such as Earl off guard, even if for a mere moment.

“Why the sudden change, if I might ask?” He inquires – an odd concoction of playfulness and confusion – still able to hide the short-lived ardor burning behind his gaze.

“Come with me and maybe you’ll find out,” she smiles briefly, and turns around, not bothering to wait for any verbal confirmation, since such agreements tend to be even more than painfully obvious.

Moments later, she steps though the bedroom door, her heels instantly landing somewhere aside – without a doubt not the most comfortable footwear. She feels Earl’s gaze burning the skin of her back, as if his eyes were supposed to brand two perfectly round holes within her flesh, a sensation that sends a pleasant shiver down her spine, a sign that her intent is coming to life, not that she finds it utterly surprising, all of the unresolved cases be damned, since the precise decision was made months ago, and yet remaining unconsumed for far too long.

Next comes the dress, garnishing the armchair with its yellow hue, exchanged for the same sombrero t-shirt that disgusts him so much, no idea why. Afterwards, she turns around to face him, his gaze dancing over her silhouette, garnishing it with scorching hue that has her cheeks heating up – a sensation that she was unable to experience for much more than she cares to admit. The dim glow makes him appear somewhat eerie, in coalescence with sharp features, high cheekbones casting a sinister shadow on the bottom half of his face, eyes reflecting the distant city lights.

“Quite frankly, I’ve came to a conclusion not so while ago,” he muses, while unhooking the cufflinks with a precise movement that leaves her in brief wonder how many times has he completed such a mundane task before.

“What kind of conclusion?” She enquires, partly occupied with watching him remove the jacket, nimble fingers undoing the buttons of his flawlessly onyx shirt – exposure, pale skin glistening in contrast to the slices of black fabric. Of course it is not her first time to see him in such a state, but definitely the most sensuous one, aiming for the most carnal parts of her soul, settling a smoldering zeal in the pit of her stomach.

“That you wanted to make it happen all along, am I right?” He continues, gradually shredding off the remaining layers of clothing, folding both pieces on the nearby armchair, satin underwear the only fabric to save his modesty.

“Aren’t you always right?” She chaffs, to which he responds with a brief eye-roll, nevertheless immediate to cross the distance between their figures with two languid strides, hand raising to tilt her chin up, sterling grey meeting russet brown. Her breath hitches due to the unexpected contact, skin pricking with goosebumps, as he holds his gaze – beginner’s challenge – possibly curious whether she would be able to take it.

“Watch your mouth, C,” he warns, voice more gravelly than usual, scratching her ears akin to a sandpaper, sending another shiver down her spine. Certain that he is about to kiss her, she leans in, practically aching for what is about to happen, when all of sudden, he lets go of her chin and plops down on the mattress, flashing her a telling glare. Confused as ever, she watches him getting comfortable on her very own bed – a sight too bizarre to be true – legs tangled in the sheets, although the upper half of his body remains exposed to the warm air.

Without a word, she follows his traces, as if caught in some sort of a trance – tunnel vision, unable to focus on anything but him – lying down on the plush surface, bodies bumping into one another. She rolls onto her side for a more decent perspective, catching herself in an immediate need to glaze the firm surface of his chest, fingers twitching in protest, as her hands ball into fists – a matter of prevention.

“You can touch me,” he prompts, attempting to hide the overly obvious amusement for no actual reason, something not within his usual manners. “I won’t bite.”

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters, sarcasm more than evident, nevertheless her hand finds its place on the pectoral muscle, tickling the skin with her cautious touch. He sighs, tentative when it comes to whether he is supposed to act on it, push a little further, certain he would be able to, however hesitant if she would be ready – a definition of any inner turmoil. “I was thinking if we could-”

“Fuck?” He interrupts, a crude word that does not fit his elegant demeanor, followed by her surprised gasp and his breathy chuckle. “Sorry if that was too blatant.”

“It wasn’t,” she negates, with a slight breathiness of her voice acting as her final betrayer, eyes trailing up to meet his. He leans in, grasping the brunette by the hip to pull her atop his lap, her hands settling atop his shoulders for stability, chest raising and falling with every rapid exhale. She squirms in attempt to find the most convenient position, suddenly clueless about the whole situation – a long time craving, but lacking in concept for what she is willing to do with it.

However, before she sees any chance to express her concern, he draws her face up towards him with a steady grip of her chin, coaxing it open with a brief press upon her cheeks. Much to her surprise, he starts out gently – a plain, old, gentlemanly kiss – lips more subtle than she was expecting at first, bereft of awkward, not to mention quite unpleasant, forcing one’s tongue down her throat.

In timing with her response, he groans against her parted mouth – a sound that picks up her interest, guttural and masculine – and she fights the innate urge to grind her hips in search for some blissful relief, and yet she has no idea from where the restraining desire came from, since in most cases she is not the one to step back. Nevertheless, she is willing to let him take the lead, considering his domineering nature and tendencies to overbear others, curious whether it is nothing more than just canting talk, or whether he, indeed, makes every word count.

“What should I do to you, huh?” He muses, trailing his fingers over the soft flesh of her stomach and up underneath her t-shirt, exposing the skin to his prying eyes, and halts once he reaches the hollow between her breasts.

“Nothing that results in permanent body damage,” she jeers, too blatant for his taste – a matter that he is quick to curb with the simplest tug of her hardened bud, drawing a whimper from her throat. She finds herself surprised not to hate it, although Noah never gave it a try in their relatively rare moments together, and much to her relief she finds no premises to associate the two men together.

“I believe I’ve told you what I think of back-talking, haven’t I?” He chides, tugging her head back with a harsh hair-grip, as if to emphasize the malicious remark, her nails clawing at his chest in some animalistic reflex. Much to her surprise, he remains quiet, the only sign betraying his discomfort is a subtle flinch marking his face, as he pries her hands away, quick to flip Cristina onto her back.

“How many times do I have to verbalize,” he hisses, hands gripping the edge of her clothing, “how much I hate that fucking t-shirt?”

Rip.

She squeals, startled with his sudden action and abrupt loss of the most decent piece she was wearing only a brief moment ago, feeling ridiculously exposed. She squirms uncomfortably, attempting to cover up what has been put on view, dainty hands flying up and across her chest – a matter that he is quick to rectify, pining her down by the wrists.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls, dangerously low – a husky sound that sends a shiver down her spine – somehow afraid to look him in the eye. He, however, has other plans, gripping her chin again, their gazes crossing, pupils full-blown with carnal lust – perfect match for his straining underwear. “I want you to hold it the whole time. Am I making myself clear?” Nod. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she gasps, her voice coming out weak and muffled, all of sudden desperate to make things speed up, “crystal clear.”

“Good girl,” he praises, a barely present smirk playing upon his lips, as he lets go of her chin. “And what do you get for being a good girl?”

“I get a reward.”

“A reward,” his eyes blaze with some odd concoction of seemingly opposite emotions – a fusion she is unable to name yet – as his smile widens a little, forming an expression dangerously close to a dim, toothy grin. “Any particular reward you have in mind?”

“Not really,” she shakes her head, entirely clueless when it comes to forming a sensible idea, or verbalizing her actual needs, “I’m fully relaying on your ingenuity,” a phrase that makes him chuckle due to its reminiscent essence. “What? Not a very wise thing to do?”

“I’d say right the opposite,” he counters, laughter fading out, as a semi-serious expression appears on his face – a promise of something that is yet to come. She is oddly afraid to ask about the true nature of said idea, despite the utter certainty that he is neither likely to hurt her in any way, nor make her feel uncomfortable.

Her body, however – always betraying even the brightest of minds – heats up, core dampening, as she stares at him, awaiting. He flashes her a brief smile, hands slipping underneath the torn fabric, as he coaxes her to get rid of it, and she sits up to remove it completely. Shortly afterwards, he grazes her lips for the last time, maybe to ease her with a gentle, familiar act, before descending down, tracing the crease between her breasts, purposely missing all the meaningful bits. With eyes shut, she enjoys whatever he is willing to offer, every single caress on the exposed stomach, as her breath picks up gradually, lungs thirsty for more oxygen.

“Wait,” she hushes, suddenly all too aware of his true intentions, caught on the blink of fearful nervousness, “he’s never-”

“Then he ain’t worth your time, love,” he interrupts, glaring at her through half-lidded eyes, lips inches away from the slick flesh, hot breath tickling her clothed center. She holds his gaze, squirming slightly below him – another sign of overly obvious impatience – when all of sudden, he delves down, lips closing around her clit through the thin lace, an action that forces a surprised moan from her throat.

Head throwing back, hips pressing forward, she absorbs the foreign sensation, clueless why she has never requested this from Noah. She finds herself wishing to remove the barrier, to ask him to do it for her, and yet any ability to speak is long gone, lost somewhere within the depths of her mind. She hates to admit it, even if internally, but has to give it to him – he has most certainly been around the block a few times – although part of her doubts whether giving him a free rain was entirely sensible.

His movements remain languid, sluggish, with a dash of teasing that she wishes to be replaced with the opposite sooner than later, lips sucking through the lacy fabric, as her hips buck in a matching pace – an attempt to increase the friction. Without a doubt, her needs have to be embarrassingly facile to distinguish, out on the table for a man like him, another fuel for his overconfidence, or vanity, according to how she prefers to call it. Sometimes, she wonders whether she is able to overfeed it, and so pop it, akin to some grotesque kind of a balloon, spilling the contents on the floor just to watch them soak up in the carpet, then disappear altogether.

Is it weird to have such thoughts?

Probably.

Lost within her own, rather bizarre reverie, she fails to notice a subtle change, a mere movement aside, the one that manages to receive yet another delighted moan. The flesh-to-flesh contact – indulgence for all her ails – lifts the experience to another level, not entirely different, just a higher floor of the same skyscraper. It would never cease to amaze her – his inhuman

(trait of all businessman maybe?)

ability to draw certain reactions from people in the variety of fields, differential like a deck of cards, from the commercial talks to well, going down on someone.

Always the one to succeed.

Ironic.

Due to the unusual silence that has settled above them in the face of necessary speech depravation along with its dual nature: delirious bliss contrasting with already preoccupied tongue, the whole act seems more uncanny than ever, without his snide remarks and cheeky comments. Nevertheless, the lull might be classified as pleasant, allowing her to focus on even the merest of physical aspects, from how his lips subtly tighten around her clit to the way his nails dig into the tawny skin of her inner thighs. At this point, she is more than sure she would fall into any trap he will set for her, if only it meant he would carry on with the act – an inkling rather unsettling in its nature, but on the other hand she is too unhinged to care – an oblivion that she has been craving for a long time.

(Noah…)

“C,” he murmurs, lips still connected, the vibrations cause her to release a shaky moan, becoming the only aspect to distinguish. “C,” he repeats, this time departing from her folds to nip at the tender flesh of her inner thighs, and so catching her attention, “talk to me, tell me how good it feels.”

“S-so good,” she stumbles upon her words, pathetically so, unable to form even the simplest response, blasé and absentminded. “I want to…”

“What is it, love?” He coaxes, gentle cadence that forms a separate reason why leaving Noah in Santa Fe was a judicious decision. “Tell me what you want.”

“To cum,” she whines with some utter helplessness, undoubtedly not very wise to express, “Daddy please.”

Unaware in terms of what she has just said, the following words that leave his lips somehow startle her, or rather catch off guard, questioning the possibility of him possessing such information, and then all of sudden the realization falls upon her like unfamiliar, heavy rain.

Accidental indiscretion is a wonderful trait.

“Daddy, huh?” His eyebrow perks up – a cheeky mannerism that requires some decent scolding, omitting the fact that no one would undertake this – a cheeky grin tugging at the corners of his lips. She is left with nothing but admission – a redundant formality – and accordingly so, she affirms with a hesitant nod, her face heating up.

However, all inhibitions become long gone, forgotten in the face of his action, as soon as he grasps her by the hips, flipping her onto the stomach, akin to some almost dainty doll, forcing a choked gasp out of her throat. In an innate attempt to wiggle away from his grip, she swings forward, bracing her weight on the open palms – a deed tragically vain in his eyes, cut short with a firm press on her back, keeping her in desired position.

“What have I told you about staying fucking still?” He hisses through gritted teeth, seemingly annoyed with her action, but not really. Truth to be told, he is more amused than angry, finding her unresolved responses rather entertaining, always the one to retort in one way or another.

She, however, does not have to know that.

Deprived of prior stimulation, the ache blossoms once more, drawing a helpless whimper from her throat, involuntarily scooting towards him. He follows her movements with hazy precision, eyes glued to the appealing arch of her back – truly a sight for sore eyes – hands itching to touch the heated skin. Unable to resist any longer, he traces the line of her spine, eliciting a soft sigh from the woman, the one that fills his virile pride.

“So responsive,” he muses under his breath, while reaching down to run his fingers over the length of her slit, drawing another squeal from her.

“Only for you,” she gasps, pushing against his fingers in hopes that it would crack his resolve.

“Say that again,” he orders bluntly, depriving her from the blissful caress once more, as if to make sure she would be quick to answer.

“Only for you,” she repeats, slightly out of breath, and as soon as she satiates his craving, he dives between her legs again, however this time, he licks a broad stripe over the length, dipping the tip of his tongue in the quivering entrance. She moans at the fresh sensation, slightly different from what she knows, nevertheless likeable, hips rocking back on their own. Quick to steady her with a free hand, he continues his work, all while attempting to minimalize the writhing – a futile attempt in its finest form.

“You squirm too much, love,” he sighs, seemingly perturbed with her actions, but as a matter of fact enjoying her unresolved responses quite dearly.

“’M sorry, Daddy,” she glares behind her, catching the sight of him past her shoulder, eyes shimmering with sinister lust. “I’ll stop.”

“You won’t, babygirl,” he refuses, with an almost apologetic smile playing upon his lips, as he summons her with a flick of his wrist. “C’mere.”

Full on the submissive merry-go-round, she obeys instantly, dragging her limp body towards him and across his lap, hands gripping his shoulders for support. One of his in turn finds its way between her legs again, stroking her with the very tips – a fleeting touch, too teasing to satiate the libidinous hunger. She arches her back, hips pushing up to increase the pressure, while he seems to have planned it out differently, steadying her one again with a vice-tight grip.

“You’re gonna take whatever I have to offer on my conditions, understood?” He admonishes, far too condescending for her own tastes, and although she perfectly realizes that acting out will get her nowhere, she partly considers it.

“Sí,” she affirms, slightly out of breath, tongue darting out to wet the parched lips. Her insides coil in some lust-ridden impatience, body more than grateful for what comes next – a tight press against the swollen nub – her hips grinding in response. She is so close she can almost taste it, lingering at the tip of her tongue, out for him to relish as he leans in, capturing her lips with a greedy suck. His kisses are laced with something distinct – a deep, carnal wanting that makes her wonder how long it has been since the last time he shared such experience with someone, or maybe she is the one to capture his attention that much.

Being honest here, both of them still sound a dash far-fetched.

“You’re shivering,” she has not even noticed, “you really need this, don’t you, my sweet girl?”

“I do, Daddy,” she jibes, glaring at him with baleful, hazy eyes that remind Earl of some drug addict briefly after the long-awaited doze.

“Then beg,” he retorts – a blatant simplicity in comparison to her inner emotional and physical turmoil: a body-betrayer and reluctance of such docility, but she is too weak to retreat while he is too malignant to let her.

“Please,” she whines, clueless when it comes to forming an actual sentence, as the mantra within her mind keeps growing louder and louder: please, please, please.

“I bet you can do better, C,” he taunts, with a hint of smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “So prove it.”

(¡¿Qué chingados fue eso ?!)

Oh, she will make sure he pays for that one, all in due course obviously.

Beyond desperate and exasperated, her nostrils flare in a vexed huff of breath, nevertheless after a few seconds required to regain the ostensible calmness, she begins her chant. “Please, Daddy, I really need to cum. It’s been so long and I just- it’s just too much, please...”

He only chuckles in response – a sound that is jarring in its audacity, tickling her ears with unhinged insolence – when all too soon and oh so unexpectedly, he pushes Cristina away, her body hitting the mattress with a loud thud, drawing a surprised squeal from her. Without waiting any longer, he dives back between her legs, bestowing her with generous licks, unresolved in any way, meant to drive her over the edge. Mouth agape with delight, she shivers in time with the approaching wave of bliss – a telling sign, as if her feminine moans were not enough – and he lets her fall into oblivion this time, drinking her up like a hunted man.

A catlike arch of her back later, she closes her thighs, entirely too sensitive to let him finish, much to his displeasure, since she has always been quite distasted when it comes to overstimulation – a factor that managed to partly ruin the encounter every single time. Much to her relief, he neither coaxes the brunette to open her legs, nor forces his way in between them, instead he leaves his prior nest to situate above her, propping himself on the elbows, face inches away from hers. Her hand raises, as if on the very own mind, to run its fingers over his features: glistening lips, protruding cheekbones, and black hair, their texture as silky as she imagined. He sighs in relief as her nails scrape over his scalp, leaning into the caress, forgetting, even if for just a fleeting moment, what is happening around him.

Finally some decent 

(weakness)

information. 

“Tell me, darling,” he whispers against her skin, the hoarseness of his voice sending shivers down her spine. “Have you ever been tempted to taste yourself?”

Having opted against bestowing him with a verbal answer, she raises to meet his lips, but he is quick to slam her shoulders back down, eliciting a pained squeal from her. She glares at him with a disappointed frown marking her face, nonetheless perfectly aware that he wants to hear her out first, then participate in any action – that is so Earl.

“Maybe I’ve been,” she purrs, her arms lacing loosely around his neck, as if braced for an accurate moment to pull him down, but he seems to know his way better, leaning in quicker than expected. She greats him with equal vigor, not entirely prepared for the foreign taste lingering upon his tongue – a heady, slightly metallic flavor – which draws a surprised moan from her, the one that somehow manages to crack his resolve. Unable to contain himself any longer, he grinds against her thigh, so hard it physically hurts, a violent shiver running down his spine as a response for the long-craved stimulation.

“Do you want me to-” she begins, breathing the words against his lips, her hands already making their way down to the waistband of his underwear.

“No,” he shakes his head, nudging her nose by accident – an act that almost causes her to giggle, akin to some silly, teenage girl, “since all I’ve had in mind for quite a while was how much I need to pursuit, and I think it’s better not to keep anyone waiting.”

“Look who’s talking,” she jeers – a little something that he would like to punish her for in due course – topping it with an impudent eye-roll, the one that he decides to ignore for a change, at least for now.

“I believe I’ve mentioned what I think about taking the liberties off back-talking, haven’t I, C?” He recalls, voice unusually calm – a presage of a violent storm. “It’s disrespectful, and I think you owe me an apology.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” she refuses, completely out of blue, catching him off guard for a brief moment, “and I ain’t gonna play some twisted mind games with you.”

(But since you like them so much, I can assure you I’m gonna fucking tear you a new one, as requested.)

Taking advantage of the fact that he is still a little perplexed due to the unexpected turn of events, she pushes him to the side – a dick move in its finest form but oh so satisfyingly fitting – and rolls on top of him, straddling his lap. High on adrenaline, she somehow manages to pin him to the bed, holding him in place with by placing her palms on his chest, purposely digging her nails into the firm flesh – an illusion of control.

“Proud of yourself, babygirl?” He mocks, a brash smirk lacing his lips, the one that she wants to wipe out so badly. “I wouldn’t have done that if I were you.”

What a smug fucking bastard.

“But since you’re here, you might wanna get me out of this,” he gestures towards the satin undergarment. “Be a doll and do that for me, and there won’t be any consequences of your disobedience.”

“Fuck you, Earl,” she hisses through gritted teeth, much to his personal amusement. He was more than aware that she would not budge – a factor that makes it all so much entertaining – and so, according to his conditions, he flips them again, her ass up in the air, weight braced on the forearms, keeping her in position with a single hand lying flat on her back.

“Stay still,” he persists, pressing his palm down harshly, before retreating altogether. Nonetheless, she remains in the humiliating position, despite the fact she could escape if that was what she wanted, but truth to be told, she craves for right the opposite – a genesis of her downfall.

A shuffling movement later, he is back behind her, nudging her thighs apart with his own, and she fights the urge to glance at him, opting for sticking to physical experiences. For some unknown reasons, she is more stressed than during her very first time, something that Noah would never forgive her for, the fact that she was not a virgin when they started dating, although he never expressed it verbally and it took her a few weeks to realize the true nature of his constant scorn.

Noah has never seemed more unimportant for her than now.

Noah…

“Wait,” she interrupts, and as soon as she does so, his movements halt, allowing her to turn on the side, so she could look at him properly, “where’s the protection?”

“Relax,” he chuckles, somehow amused with her sudden coming to senses in terms of less jaunty aspects of such intercourses, “I ain’t gonna get you pregnant.”

“Why?” She asks, quite stern when it comes to such matters in the face of Noah’s obsession and her lack of contraceptive pills.

“Vasectomy,” he explains bluntly, to which she just nods in approval and flips on her stomach, quick to bend her knees in order to recreate the previous position. Somehow she trusts him, since Earl never hit her as a fatherly kind of man, maybe because she has never got a chance to watch how he acts around children, but truth to be told, his attitude simply does not fit them: overly stern, demanding, with suggestive manners and cocky smirk – definitely not something that would decoy the kids, rather than scare them away.

Which is of course for the better.

Lost in her reverie, she barely notices all the minor adjustments until he interrupts her train of thoughts with a swift slide inside, barely preparing her for what was about to come, tearing a pained cry for the brunette. In the face of her sudden thirst for air, she gulps it with rapid inhales, attempting to calm down, even if for the slightest bit, her frame shivering in his grip.

“Sorry love,” he purrs into her hair, planting a few soft kisses on the nape of her neck, “didn’t expected you to be this- ah- tight.”

She only manages to utter an agreeable hum, still breathless and aching, certain that she will be sore in the morning, nonetheless finding that prediction somehow thrilling. Still and all, to pursuit further, she decides to loosen up a little, coming to a realization how tensed she actually is, laying her forehead on the pillow, her muscles limp as her breathing gradually begins to steady. His concept, however, seems to differ from hers, so when she is just about to tell him to move, he bluntly retreats, leaving her confused and gasping for air once more.

“Changed my mind,” he mutters hoarsely into her ear, tugging at the lobe teasingly with his teeth. “I want you to ride me.”

“What?” she snaps, unable to hide her bewilderment due to the sudden change, with a tone that brings him in consideration whether skipping more stern punishment was indeed a display if foolishness.

“You heard me,” he asserts, back at the callous and grim countenance, all evanescent compassion long forgotten – main feature of everything ephemeral – as he leaves her kneeling there, a wordless command for her to follow. And so, she completes, straddling him once again this night, calves on the either sides of his body, leaning forward to brace her weight on his shoulders. His hands, in turn, find their place on her hips, slowly guiding her to sink onto him, an action that draws another urgent moan from her, which becomes partly muffled by his own throaty groan, until she settles down completely, tremors of shock running down her spine. 

Allowing herself to take a decent few-moments-long adjustment, she remains practically still, precluding a couple of experimental grinds, but even this time, she keeps them shallow, barely sensible for him. Earl, in turn, as an exemplary gentleman he is, lets her pursuit with it however she is willing to, at least for now – a pleasant change in comparison to his prior behavior, but she would be a pesky liar if she refused to admit enjoying their former activities.

Quick to correct the matter, she raises from the more effortless alternative of her position, and sits back down, eliciting a relieved gasp from him. His muscles twitch underneath her as if he attempted to refrain from moving, opting for the infamous confinement that allows watching only, even if temporary, curious when it comes to how she will handle the given task.

(Life is what I like to call a challenge.)

Since the very first time he had laid eyes on her those few years ago, he was more than certain she would blossom into a beautiful woman one day – a sight for sore eyes as his grandfather would tell his wife on multiple occasions. Who would have thought that he would get an actual chance to affirm his assumptions, to see her bouncing up and down on him, rubbing against his pubic bone to get off, breast jiggling with every movement.

He is a lucky son of a bitch, that is for sure.

Prosperously enough, he does not have to wait longer for her pace to pick up, tiny puffs of breath slipping past her lips, interrupted with an occasional louder moan, lost in some ethereal dimension of lust. However, as the time passes, the only-watching rule starts to feel much more like a limitation than a pleasant interval, hands itching to flip their bodies and claim her like a starved man would, a starved man he is. All still, according to whichever quasi-gentleman rule he uses as an excuse to prove what a merciful man he is, he allows her for a few more, rather shallow moves, before grasping her by the shoulders to reverse their positions. With hands wrapped around her neck, he begins to thrust, drawing a startled squeal from the woman, as her palms fly up to grip his forearms, breaths becoming more desperate in the face of the possibility of cutting them short.

“Tap my wrist twice if you want me to stop,” he clarifies, to which she responds with a brief nod and a quiet, “yes Daddy,” cut short with an experimental holdfast around her throat. As if in some animalistic instinct, she gasps for air, although the firsthand nuisance ends up faster than expected as he focuses on the more important element – nailing her into the mattress, maybe not only in a metaphorical sense. Soon enough, he discovers that it makes quite an elaborate way to prevent her from squirming, which becomes almost inhuman in the face of such overwhelming daze, and according to that, she lies still below him, maintaining a tight grip around his wrists as if it was somehow to supposed keep her in touch with reality.

While neither of them manage to utter a coherent word, his rhythm gradually steadies as if those few moments were necessary to figure out what would work better for both of them – a match for some distant tune playing in the back of his head. He finds it rather odd, unsettling even, how music seems to invade his senses, mind, and soul

(does it exist at all?),

claiming him and his resolves – a simple, yet significant influence that tends to make an appearance even in the most unexpected occasions. However this time, he chooses to ignore it, pushing it somewhere deep in the back of his mind, left for the carnal inclinations to feed onto the thought, shape it exactly how they want until it becomes another monstrous, relentless desire that would eat him alive if not fulfilled – the downfall of humanity.

Sweat already begins to prick from his skin, causing it to shine in the dim light akin to some eerie creature, loose strands falling into his eyes, tickling bits of his face and disrupting the view. Tentatively, she runs her fingers through his hair, slicking them back in place – a tender gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment – before her hand returns to its previous settling, wrapped around his wrist. She squeezes him like a damn vice, probably on purpose, knowing well-enough what it does to him, as his muscles bulge with effort to push Cristina over the edge, feeling her insides coil in anticipation for what is about to come.

“Already so close?” He taunts, intending to make her snap this time, to give him an actual excuse to implement his little, lewd fantasy, and all still, there remains an indecision whether it lies within his virtual needs.

(No, it doesn’t.)

She affirms with a brief nod that causes his grip to tighten around her throat, forcing a choked gasp from the brunette, oddly unprepared for such outcome. “How many times do I have to tell you that I want you to use your words,” he hisses through gritted teeth, punctuating each word with a rough, earth-shattering thrust that has her crying out with mind-numbing jugglery of pain and pleasure.

“Yes,” she croaks with apparent effort, “I’m already so close, and I want you to- ah-”

“Tell me, C,” he throats, voice breaking at the end, “what do you want me to do?”

“To make me cum,” she whines desperately, ready to drop the tough façade if only it meant that she would get exactly what she has desiderated all along, “Daddy, please.”

“If that’s what you want,” he appeases, much to her relief, as her legs find their way around his waist, unconsciously dragging his whole body closer. His pace remains the same, well-aware that it will get her off faster than any alternative, slamming into her hard enough to make her breasts jiggle. It seems to snap something within her, a coil that has only been waiting to be unraveled, and he is left with nothing more than watch her fall from the brink, pupils full-blown with lust, as her body trembles beneath him, eyelids shut, mouth agape in a silent scream of dazing bliss.

He lets go of her throat, surprised to realize he was squeezing it seconds prior, and his name rolls of her tongue this time – a breathless gasp of delight – as the sensation washes over her in toes-curling waves. Accompanied by the almost inhuman squeeze of her inner muscles, it takes him a relatively brief amount of time to follow the woman, eyes hazy with rapture as he barely manages to keep them open.

In post-orgasmic delirium, his head drops to her shoulder, hands immediately slip into his hair, playing with the fine locks, now completely blowzy, with the previous dandy hairstyle long forgotten. He leans into the caress, allowing it to last for a couple more seconds, before he pulls out of her and rolls onto his back to prevent from crushing her.

“That was ridiculous,” she manages to utter after a brief moment of silence that settled over the exhausted lovers, the words barely audible due to the weakness within her voice.

“It was,” he hums in agreement, ready to rise from the bed despite the immerse need to fall asleep, however yet to inform her about his intents. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

“Wait,” she grasps his forearm to keep him from moving, perfectly aware that she will be lying here in a deep slumber by the time he gets back. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” He chuckles, casting her a sideways glance. “For sex? It’s-”

“No,” she counters, shaking her head, “for showing me that there’re still things worth our effort, things we can hold onto, entirely different from what we know.”

“Well,” he flashes her with one last, dashing smile, already up for a short-term visit in the adjoining bathroom, and most importantly too weary to bestow her with a more comprehensive answer, “you’re welcome, love.”

Little they know, everything is temporary.

Fame, money, felicity.

However, felicity seem to enjoy going hand with them.

And it is better to stick to that thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Created: 06/13/20  
> Completed: 08/21/20  
> Edited: 08/21/20


End file.
